Warnings for this chapter include illusions to childabuse, Self harm, overuse of the comma, sexuality and cussing.
If this is not your cup of tea. Then please, look away.
This chapter and the next chapters is for rhymenocerous who was a darling and left a lovely review.
Hopefully, the Daddy!Daryl in this will make up for the above warnings.
also, is Sgt. A. Ford based off of Flanery?
peeerrhaaaps. But We're gonna overlook that.
_
"What's up brotha?" asked Abraham as he opened the door to the catwalk in the early dawn hours and grasped hands with Daryl where he sat, bad leg (now mostly healed) propped up, eyes trained on the horizon.
"Nothing much." replied Daryl, eyes flickering over to his old friend. "Watchin' the nasties. So far, nothing more than these poxy bastards." He kicked his good foot against the ground.
"Good thing too. It's been quiet." rumbled the other man. "Don't like it none."
"Merle figures that nigger's comin' after us. Say we got his son." Daryl told Abraham slowly as he pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket and placed one in his mouth, flicking the lighter and watching the paper catch. "Least, that's what he heard from Milton over the H.T."
"How would they know we had Micah though?" Abe asked him shaking his head at the offered cigarette with a muttered 'It'll give ya cancer.' which only had Daryl snorting through the stream of smoke coming out of his nose.
"That's just the thing, ain't it? How do they know? Last anyone saw the kid; he was with his mother before the gin blew up. It was so dark that night. They wouldn't have paid attention to me or what I was throwing."
"You figure they're watchin' us?" Abe asked, falling into the chair next to Daryl.
"Yop." Daryl nodded, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. "Know they are, they ain't as sneaky as they think they are. Armatures." He popped the cigarette back in his mouth with a grin of amusement.
"Hmmm..." hummed Abe. "You gon' give the boy back?" This was a stupid question, of course. Anyone who knew anything 'bout anything knew there was no way in hell they'd be able to pry Daryl and the boy away from each other.
In fact, it was a wonder the kid had started talking to anyone other than Daryl.
If Abraham thought back to the near silent freshman he knew back in his senior year of high school, with the floppily blondish hair that covered his eyes and the sneer permanently etched on his face, he never in a million years would have guessed the kid from a town over to the left and up the mountain, the one who spent most his time in the library over some massive book, the one who would never take off his shirt in gym class and would hit anyone who called him by his last name (though, somehow Faggot and a whole slew of other horrible names never seemed to faze him) could be so patient and willing to listen to the kid's constant questions about the world around him.
Hell, once Micah had figured out Daryl would not only listen to his questions, but actually answer them (or if he didn't know the answer, would send him to someone who knew.)
(This wasn't often though) he hadn't stopped asking the man questions as he held on to the hem of Daryl's jeans as Daryl went limping about his day.
(Daryl Dixon, apparently- did not hold hands)
(Though, Abraham figured this was simply because he didn't like having still hands, Daryl always had to be doing something. He'd been that way for as long as Ford could remember)
Daryl's eyes darkened.
He held out his arm to his old friend, pointing to three circular scars on the inside of his forearm.
"Know what these are?"
"Cigarette burns…" He said slowly before his eyes widened. "Kid has those on his feet, don't he?"
"He ain't goin' back there. He's mine now." Daryl told him, taking the cigarette and putting it out on his skin over one of the old burns.
He hissed at the pain, before flicking the bud away.
Abraham said nothing for a long while, the two watching walkers collect at the gates, yearning for the flesh they could smell inside the walls of the prison.
Daryl had always been an odd duck. Sometimes, he wondered if the man caused himself pain, just to make sure he could still feel.
It was so long ago, the day he found the kid huddled in the men's bathroom, face torn to shit, holding a lighter to the inside of his thigh… He had hoped that the years had made things easier for Daryl. Made it easier to forget his past.
Obviously not.
He and Merle were made for this world. Made for a world of pain, and of torture, and survival over living.
It didn't make it any less difficult to watch it go down.
Abraham wondered if the others saw it- surely, Carol did- as quick as that woman was.
But did the others? Did they know about the scars on the Brothers back? About the night terrors he knew Merle still had.
How many times had he woken up to a knife at his throat if he startled the older Dixon in his sleep? That wasn't war.
That wasn't Iraq. That was Backwoods Georgia and a mean Daddy who didn't know you weren't supposed to hit your sons.
As sun rose slowly over the world around them Daryl stood up, cracking his back.
"I'm gon' go see if Carol won't let me lay down with her." Daryl told him, grasping for the cane that was now his almost constant companion. He looked down at the cane with contempt. "Try and get some sleep."
"You hit that yet?" Abraham asked with a snarky laugh and a smirk. "Cause if you don't flick that bean soon, I will." He waggled his eyebrows at Daryl, whose face turned brilliantly red.
"Tactless bastard." was the growled reply as Daryl limped away and back into the prison and Abraham laughed loudly, propping his feet up in the chair Daryl had been sitting in before.